The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland), Page 3

  “That’s it,” I said, taking the tablet of paper away from her. “I’ll go unorganized. You’re clearly too overcome with smutty thoughts to be of any practical use.”

  “Fine, but don’t blame me if your granny pants scare off any potential suitor!”

  “I’ll take that risk,” I told her, and spent the rest of the afternoon happily arguing with her over every garment.

  Life was looking good, and nothing could dim my happiness.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 18

  11:18 a.m.

  Row 7, Seat B on the plane to New York City

  Crap! Crap, crap, crappity crap! Big fat hairy balls of crap! Boris is on the plane with me! He’s hiding behind a magazine, but I just know it’s him.

  July 18

  To: Daddy

  Why is Boris on the plane? Dad! I am almost 30! I don’t need a bodyguard!!!

  July 18

  To: Angela

  Is Boris there?

  July 18

  From: Angela

  I don’t know. Let me ask your father.

  July 18

  From: Angela

  Peter says Boris has taken a vacation for a few weeks. Why? Did you change your mind about a bodyguard?

  July 18

  To: Angela

  I knew it! Dad sent Boris here! He’s on the plane! Globules!

  July 18

  From: Angela

  Globules? Boris has globules?

  July 18

  To: Angela

  Autocorrect, sorry. That was supposed to be goddammit.

  July 18

  From: Angela

  Ah. I will speak to Peter about Boris.

  July 18

  From: Daddy

  You are Rostakov woman. You are valuable. Mens from film company are not protection. Ignore Boris. Pretend he is not there. Do not talk to anyone. Use Mama’s name. You have Taser?

  July 18

  To: Daddy

  No, I did not bring the tater!

  July 18

  To: Daddy

  Damn you, autocorrect! TASTER! I did not bring the TASTER.

  July 18

  From: Daddy

  What are you tasting? Let Boris eat first in case of drugs.

  July 18

  To: Daddy

  Gah!

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 18

  11:32 a.m.

  Row 7, Seat B on the plane to New York City (still)

  “Would you like to switch seats with me?” The woman in the seat next to me must have heard me swearing under my breath, not to mention periodically rising up to twist around and glare at the seats toward the back of the plane.

  “Hmm?” I stopped shaking my phone in an attempt to get my idiotic father to understand that I was an adult and capable of taking care of myself, and looked at the woman. “Oh, sorry. Have I been bothering you? No, this seat is fine. It’s just that I want to throttle my father and can’t because he’s back in California.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “I understand how family can drive you nuts. I was just in Seattle visiting family who I haven’t seen in a long time, and now I know why I moved to the other side of the world. I’m Tessa, by the way.”

  “Paulie,” I said, smiling in return. “I so wish I could move away from my family, but my father has issues.”

  “Oh, don’t I know it? My stepdaughter is nineteen, but her father still treats her like she’s a child. We have to remind him now and again that she’s an adult.”

  “It’s like she’s living my life,” I said with a sigh. “Although I’m a lot older than nineteen. Would you excuse me? I have to go yell at a man.”

  She obligingly swung her legs to the side and allowed me to crawl out from my middle seat. Although I could have charged a first-class ticket to New York City, I was trying to make a point by not relying on my father’s money to undertake this adventure. Instead, I accepted the production company’s economy-class ticket, enjoying my father’s sputtered comments about the dangers of mingling with people. I fixed my eyes on a large shape in the very last row and marched down the narrow aisle, dodging and sidestepping people’s arms and legs and two flight attendants before finally stopping next to Boris.

  “It’s no good hiding behind a magazine,” I told him, plucking the flight magazine from his fingers. Boris, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a hoodie, glared back at me. “I know that you’re here, and I know what you and Dad are planning. It’s not going to work. You can’t come along with me on the race. I will tell the production people as soon as I get to New York that you are a stalker and need to be kept away at all costs.”

  His jaw tightened. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me!” I shoved the magazine back at him. “If I so much as glimpse you hanging around the fringes, I will report you as a dangerous stalker. I’d advise you to take the vacation you’re supposed to be on, and forget about my father’s paranoia.” I smiled tightly. “Have a nice time in New York!”

  He swore under his breath when I turned and made my way back to my seat, but we both knew that he was fighting a lost cause.

  “Problem?” Tessa asked when I climbed over her legs. “I shouldn’t be so nosy, but if there’s something I can do to help you—”

  “It’s just my father’s idea of protection,” I said, waving away the subject. “He doesn’t like me traveling on my own. I, on the other hand, am very excited to be going to New York. I’ve only ever been there with family.”

  “It’s not my favorite city, but it does have a lot to do and see. Unfortunately, we won’t have much time to do any sightseeing.”

  “We?” I asked, settling in for a pleasant chat. I hadn’t flown much—and never on my own—but I didn’t at all find Tessa the stereotypical unpleasant seatmate. The man sitting on my other side had fallen asleep as soon as the plane took off and showed no signs of waking anytime soon.

  “My husband and stepdaughter are meeting me there. We’re going to be part of a special event—a road rally that’s being filmed.”

  I gawked at her, an unpleasant look to be sure, but I couldn’t help myself. “You’re . . . you’re in the race, too?”

  “Too?” Surprise lit her eyes. “You’re in it?”

  “I’m one of the suffragettes,” I said, delighted.

  “So is my stepdaughter!” she answered, laughing. “What a small world!”

  We compared our stories. “And your stepdaughter’s name is . . . ?”

  “Melody. You’ll like her—she’s very smart, and very knowledgeable about the suffragette movement. She’s studying history at college.”

  “I’m surprised she’s not part of your team.”

  “Oh, Max—my husband—would have loved for her to be on our team, but she wanted desperately to be in the suffragette car. Instead we have a delightful woman who used to be our maid. Well, on the show she was our maid.”

  “Show?”

  “Max and I met on a reality show filmed by the same production company.”

  “Very cool. I think I remember reading something about that.”

  Tessa smiled again, and I warmed even more to her. Like me, she had an abundance of curves, but unlike my black-haired bob, she possessed long brown hair, which she wore in an intricate braid. I was envious of that hair. We chatted for the duration of the flight, with her telling me what it was like to be filmed for a month.

  “They won’t watch you during intimate times, like bathroom and bedroom events, but everything else is fair game.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to act natural knowing people are filming me.”

  “Oh, you forget about it fast enough. Tabby and Sam—the sound-and-camera team—are awesome that way. And they’re really nice. If there’s somet
hing super embarrassing, they will conveniently erase that part.”

  “I don’t know what could be that embarrassing, so long as they don’t film me in the shower.”

  “You have no idea,” she said with a rueful laugh, shaking her head. “With us, it was catching Max and me in compromising positions. It seemed like any time we went in for a lip-lock, or something more physical, the cameras were there. Sam was most obliging, though, and didn’t pass on that footage to Roger, the producer.”

  “That won’t be a problem with me,” I reassured her. “I don’t have a romantic partner.”

  “But you never know who you might fancy in the race,” she said with a little waggle of her eyebrows. “Have you seen the Italian team? Holy moly, they are straight from the cover of GQ. And there are a couple of gorgeous Brits, and the French team looks pretty nice if you like ’em Gallic.”

  I made no comment, instead exclaiming when she pulled a black journal out of her bag to show me a picture of her husband. “Oh, do you write in a journal, too? I just started one.”

  “Yup. I’ve done so ever since I was a girl. Max keeps telling me I should publish them, but there’s a lot of intimate stuff in there.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You write about your . . . uh . . .”

  “Sure, why not?” She gave a little half shrug. “Sex is just as much a part of life as everything else. Besides, Max likes to reread those sections.”

  I was quiet for a bit while she told me about her life in England, the house, her husband, and how she hated wearing a corset even though it did wonders for her figure. I decided that if—and that was a very big if—I had any moments of romance during the next month, I’d document them. I was fairly sure that Nellie Bly would have, although, naturally, she’d have kept that out of any book she published.

  “Still,” I said to myself when Tessa was off using the bathroom, “I bet she wrote that stuff down, too. Oh well. It’s not like I’ll have anything to document, sultry Italians and handsome Frenchmen aside.”

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: FWD: So?

  To: Dixon

  CC: Rupert

  Dixon, would you show this e-mail to your obstinate brother? He refuses to respond, and we’re dying back here to know what’s going on.

  ORIGINAL MESSAGE

  Rupert! You were supposed to e-mail us as soon as you got to New York City and met the other racers, and it’s been almost four hours. Have you met Mercy’s stepcousin-in-law or whatever relation Paulie is to her? What did you think? Are you not e-mailing because you’re disappointed? Everything that Mercy said her aunt told her about Paulie sounded like she’s wonderful, and you guys share all sorts of interests. You like horses—she works with horses! You like art—Mercy’s aunt says Paulie used to draw. You’re almost the same age, so stop being silent and tell me what you think. You know my matchmaking mojo is on the line here.

  Elliott says to tell Dixon that the order for fertilizer came in, but they dumped it on the south lawn, so we’ve closed that off from the tourists, so he said not to worry if there’s a dip in revenues for the month.

  E-mail me as soon as you get this. I’m dying to know what your first impression of Paulie is. I think she’s just perfect for you!

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 18

  6:14 p.m.

  Dorcet Hotel, New York City, Room 1107

  Tessa told me that the dinner tonight with the production company would allow all the participants to meet one another, and then we’d go off to be measured for costumes. I was going to wear my maxi skirt, but decided I’d better trot out the fancy green dress instead.

  “Good idea,” Julia approved, her voice tinny and distant since I had her on speakerphone while I hurriedly got dressed. “Not that the skirt isn’t cute, but you might as well have your first impression be one of elegance and charm.”

  “I am anything but either of those two, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  “You’re welcome. Now go forth and conquer Mr. Right.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Tessa said there were some handsome Italians, too.”

  “Oooh. I’ll look at the Web site and see if they have their pictures. Just don’t drop a wall down, OK, lovey?”

  “A wall?”

  “The kind you erect to keep men out of your life.”

  “I don’t do any such thing,” I protested.

  “You may not know it, but you do. I understand—I really do—but now that you’ve finally made your break from your father, don’t slip into old defense mechanisms. You’re free—let down your hair and enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m not as free as you think,” I muttered, and told her about Boris.

  “I’d like to say I’m surprised, but honestly, given your father’s behavior, I’m not. Are you sure you ditched him?”

  “I hope so. I made it pretty clear I’d have him removed from the area if he tried to follow me.”

  “Good for you. Whoops—Sanjay just got here. Have a great time, and text me later, OK?”

  “Will do. Laters!”

  I’m not a shy person, but I was a bit hesitant about entering the hotel ballroom that had been reserved for the production company. A dozen or so round tables were set up, as were a big whiteboard and a screen for a laptop projector. People bustled about, laughing, chatting, and generally making the sort of happy sounds that indicated a successful party.

  “Name?”

  I jumped a little when I entered the room and a young man with a clipboard popped up.

  “Oh. Hi. Um, Paulina Rosta—uh—” I stopped and remembered that, except with immigration officials, I was supposed to use my mother’s maiden name.

  “Paulina Rosta?” The man frowned at his paper and flipped through a couple of sheets.

  “No, it’s Paulina Lewes. Sorry.”

  “Ah. Yes, you’re here. You’re at table six.” He nodded into the room. “The meet and greet will go on for another twenty minutes; then Roger will welcome you.”

  “Gotcha.” I entered the room, my head up, my stomach knotted with nerves, and my palms sweaty. “Steady,” I told myself. “Nellie wouldn’t have blanched at the idea of a bunch of strangers in a room.”

  “I totally agree,” a voice said behind me. “Although I don’t know this Nellie person. Is she famous?”

  I spun around to see a blond woman in her mid-twenties pouting at her phone, clearly taking pictures of herself. “Hi. Um. Nellie is Nellie Bly. She was an intrepid woman reporter in the 1880s.”

  “Oh.” The girl rolled her eyes and took another selfie. “Why do you care what she thinks? She’s got to be, like, almost dead now.”

  “She is dead. She died in 1922.”

  “So thrilling.” The girl stopped admiring herself in her phone’s camera and looked around the room. “Oh god, they’re here. They’re sure to want to drool all over my tits.”

  I blinked at both her comment and the way she hoisted up her substantial bosomage, generously displayed in a skintight spandex dress. “Uh . . .”

  “The Italians. They’re animals, all of them,” she said, striking a pose when one of them lifted his hand to wave at her. “All they want to do is get in my pants. As if. I’m holding out for the lord’s brother.”

  “The who now?”

  “One of the English teams has two brothers of a real English lord on it. Can you imagine being a lady with a real castle? You could totally have a show about that.”

  “A show,” I repeated, feeling particularly stupid. “A TV show?”

  “Yeah. My dad’s the producer,” she said, suddenly raking me over with a scathing glance. “You one of the crew?”

  “I guess so. I’m going to be in the suffragette car.”

  She stared at me for a minute, then made a disgusted noise in
the back of her throat. “No offense, but you aren’t at all the sort of person who should be in my car.”

  “Your car?”

  “I’m the lead suffragette.” She tapped at her phone, sliding through a number of texts. “Dad was going to make me be in the U.S. car, but Mom put a stop to that. As if I was going to ride around in a car where you can’t even see me?”

  “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about,” I said, confused. “You mean the car had a top? I thought they were all convertibles back then?”

  She flipped through more text messages. “The U.S. car—you know, the modern one?” I must have looked as puzzled as I felt, because she continued, with another irritated noise. “There are two races. One for the old cars, and one two months later for the new ones. Mom says the cameras are going to be on the old cars more because we’ll be wearing costumes, and it’s all very Downton Abbey, and people like that sort of thing. The new-car race is just a race, you know.”

  “Huh. I had no idea there were two separate races, but I guess it makes sense.”

  “So.” She tucked away her phone and gave me a pointed look. “You’ll be on my team, then. Naturally, I’ll be the driver and the spokeswoman for the group, and the English girl said she can do the navigation stuff, which means you get to be the mechanic. I hope you’re handy with tools.”

  “Uh . . .” She sashayed off before I could answer, making for a cluster of men in identical shiny midnight blue suits. I gathered by the way they greeted her that they were the Italian team, and had to admit that Tessa was right—they were easy on the eyes.

  Just as I was thinking of joining the group in order to meet my fellow race contestants, a small gaggle of women and a man entered the ballroom. The man stopped to talk to the guy at the door, but the three women made a beeline for the Italians, who greeted them with cries of joy.

  “Well, hell,” I said aloud to myself, my spirits dropping at the sight of the women clinging to the men. “There goes my shot at sexual gratification with a handsome foreigner.”

  I felt a movement at my side and turned to see the man who had entered with the women was now next to me, giving me a quizzical look that included a raised eyebrow.